


Vermilion

by MxTicketyBoo



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Biting in intimate places, Blood, Blood Drinking, Look you know what I mean, M/M, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, Vampire Bites, Vampire Felix Fraldarius, Vampire Sex, Vampire Venom, Vampires, past ashelix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MxTicketyBoo/pseuds/MxTicketyBoo
Summary: Throughout the war, several of the Blue Lions alleviated Felix’s hunger, kept him well-fed and strong for the long, seemingly unending battles. But Sylvain was always, without hesitation, refused.By now, Sylvain is well-acquainted with rejection. So much so it rarely stings anymore, especially when it results from his own hollow words and empty promises. This situation with Felix, though… that’s a kick in the teeth that never loses its might.It hurts, and it fills his mouth with blood from biting his tongue.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 183
Collections: Fodlan Frights Halloween Exchange 2020





	Vermilion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiteraryLark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryLark/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Fódlan Frights Gift Exchange. Hope you enjoy it, Lark! <3
> 
> Note: This is canon compliant aside from the Fraldarius line being vampires. In this universe, vampire venom is supposed to have a sedative effect to make feeding easier. Sylvain pretty much has the opposite reaction, just FYI, but Felix has his full consent for everything that happens. Mind the rest of the tags, please!
> 
> Thanks to lovely Lines for the beta read!

“Felix, are you sure you’ll be all right?”

On instinct, Sylvain swings toward the sound of the name, eyes automatically seeking his lifelong friend. The sight of Felix in the entryway to the great hall eases some of the restless tension in Sylvain’s shoulders, but ignites an entirely different sort of tension instead. One that forces him to draw in a deep, slow breath to steady himself.

If it was true vampires could hold people in thrall, Sylvain would say Felix’s name alone held that power over him. He isn’t sure if the stories about blood-drinkers and their myriad talents are simply that: stories. He’s never seen Felix exhibit that sort of insidious ability. Increased speed and strength, yes. Keener eyesight than even the Kingdom’s best archers, most definitely. But nothing to indicate mental influence over others. And yet, Sylvain wonders, obsessively and often, about the true extent of Felix’s capabilities. 

What else can Felix do? What other dark, dangerous powers lurk beneath that cool, standoffish exterior? It’s been an unavoidable, persistent curiosity ever since Sylvain discovered the truth about the Fraldarius line—that vampires actually _existed_ and were born, not made—back when he still had the charming cushion of baby fat in his cheeks.

Sylvain wonders again, now, as he stares at Felix in his navy riding cloak.

Felix is ready to depart for their journey, a rucksack slung over one shoulder and his favorite sword at his hip. He looks handsome in his traveling apparel, his eyes uncanny amber and his face all fierce angles, sharp as the blades he wields in battle. But it isn’t his face that captures Sylvain’s attention—it’s the way Ashe stands before him, one of Felix’s elegant, long-fingered hands clasped in both of his.

“You haven’t fed in weeks,” Ashe says, voice pitched low and expression earnest. “And even then, you barely took enough. Drink from me, please, just to tide you over until you reach Fraldarius.”

“I’m fine, Ashe,” Felix replies. 

It’s a lie. They all know it. But what Sylvain fixates on is the fact that Felix hasn’t pulled away from Ashe’s touch.

The contact speaks of familiarity, of intimacy Felix allows from a seldom few. Ashe, Annette, sometimes Ingrid, but never Sylvain. When Sylvain tosses an arm around Felix’s shoulders, he gets promptly shrugged off. Yet Ashe is allowed to do so much more.

Jealousy coils tight and hot in Sylvain’s belly.

“Felix,” Ashe says. Soft, pleading.

Sylvain watches, flexing his hands at his sides, trying to push the unwelcome feelings away, back into the dark well of his mind where they belong. Felix wouldn’t appreciate the jealousy; frankly, Sylvain doesn’t appreciate it either. It’s not an emotion he’s accustomed to or one he particularly welcomes. No other person has ever inspired it in him _but_ Felix. Sylvain should resent it, perhaps. Instead, he merely wants and _wants_ all the more.

Despite his pallor, Felix shakes his head and finally draws away from Ashe. “You’re still recovering. We all are. The war was long and hard enough already. You don’t need to concern yourself for me.”

“But I am concerned.” Ashe steps closer. “If it’s the thought of Dedue that holds you back, he doesn’t mind. Truly. He understands. He encouraged me to come to you, and I’m not so weak I can’t help a friend.”

“Thank you, Ashe, but no.”

Ashe relents with a nod, because of course he does. He may push, gently, out of concern for someone he cares about, but he also knows when to ease off. He’s not one to _insist_. Not the way Sylvain wants to.

“You should leave soon, then,” Ashe says. “I’ve heard talk of a storm.”

Felix dips his chin. “I’ll see you next moon.”

Sylvain falls into step with Felix as they make their way to the palace stables. They were offered a small retinue to accompany them on the journey east, but both refused. The fighting ended mere months ago, and peace was declared across the land, the new United Kingdom of Fódlan, but endless amounts of work remains to be done. Fhirdiad is only just stable enough for them to feel comfortable leaving for a brief visit to their respective territories. 

The visit is more crucial for Felix, whose lands had been left in the hands of a distant cousin after Rodrigue’s death, but Sylvain won’t let him travel alone, and he can take the opportunity to check in with his own house besides. The Margrave maintained control over Gautier, but that didn’t mean the territory had escaped the war unscathed. There wasn’t a single town or village which hadn’t been affected by the fighting in some form or another. Sylvain will assist in whatever way he can, and then rejoin Felix for the journey back to Fhirdiad. He knows Felix doesn’t want to leave Dimitri without support for very long. The plan is to sort his affairs before returning to the palace for the foreseeable future. And so long as Felix will be there, so too will Sylvain.

Their mounts are ready when they arrive at the stables, and it isn’t long before they’ve left the city of Fhirdiad for the barren, war-scarred lands beyond. They both packed lightly—weapons and the barest of essentials. It isn’t a long trip, but winter is quickly sinking its sharp, bitter claws into Faerghus, and the faster they make the journey, the better.

“Is it true what Ashe said?” Sylvain asks when they’re on a desolate stretch of road and he can’t bear to listen to nothing but the steady plod of hooves for another moment. “Has it really been weeks since you fed?”

Felix doesn’t answer immediately. When Sylvain turns his head to look at him, he sees Felix’s forehead has furrowed and his mouth thinned to a disapproving line.

“It’s none of your concern,” he says, at length, under the weight of Sylvain’s expectant stare.

Sylvain’s fingers tighten on the reins, and he turns to face ahead once again. “I could feed you, too, you know.”

“We’re not having this discussion.”

There’s a note of finality in Felix’s voice that sends a painful stab of rejection through Sylvain’s heart. This isn’t the first or second time he’s offered and been dismissed. Throughout the war, several of the Blue Lions alleviated Felix’s hunger, kept him well-fed and strong for the long, seemingly unending battles. Most often Annette or Ashe, but occasionally Mercedes, and on a few more dire occasions, their professor as well. Felix never asked Dimitri or Dedue, for a multitude of reasons, and they never offered. But Sylvain did, and was always, without hesitation, refused.

By now, he's well-acquainted with rejection. So much so it rarely stings anymore, especially when it results from his own hollow words and empty promises. This situation with Felix, though… that’s a kick in the teeth that never loses its might.

It hurts, and it fills Sylvain's mouth with blood from biting his tongue.

They don’t speak again until Felix’s head jerks up, like a hound suddenly catching a scent, but by then, it’s too late. The bandits are upon them.

They’re angry and desperate—the scant months of peace having done little to resolve the issues of famine and rampant poverty spread far and wide throughout this new United Fódlan after five years of warfare. The Kingdom hasn’t had the time or the resources to make much impact quite yet, and the people are hungry, exhausted, furious. Justifiably so, in Sylvain’s opinion. The state of their country had already been in disrepair long before the fighting commenced. It takes time to heal one nation, let alone an entire continent, and for now, survival is the primary objective.

Sylvain understands, then—as shouts ring through the air and they find themselves on the defensive under a sudden attack—just how long Felix has let his own hunger go unchecked. Under normal circumstances, given Felix’s acute sense of hearing, no gang of roving bandits would’ve been able to ambush them without Felix detecting them lying in wait from miles away. For his senses to be so dulled, he must be _starving_. 

Sylvain doesn’t have time to consider the ramifications. He leaps off his horse and dives into the fray.

They’re outnumbered, but these people are common folk driven to rashness, not trained soldiers. Sylvain and Felix make quick work of them, aiming to incapacitate not kill, and those who don’t fall immediately soon realize they’re woefully outmatched. They turn tail and run, leaving their brethren behind. Sylvain takes a few minutes to ensure none of the injuries are life-threatening and to briefly mutter healing spells over the worst of the lot. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Felix doing the same.

It isn’t until Felix’s foot slips from the stirrup as he attempts to remount afterward that Sylvain realizes he’s injured. Felix crashes into the stallion’s flank with a pained grunt, and Sylvain rushes forward to steady him.

If Felix was pale before, he’s white as snow now. Even his lips are colorless.

Sylvain looks down and spots a spreading red stain on the tunic Felix wears beneath his cloak.

“How bad is it?” Sylvain asks. “Let me see.”

The fact that Felix doesn’t stop him from investigating is another alarming sign. There’s a gash in Felix’s side, not too deep and not severe enough to be fatal, especially not to a vampire, but with him already underfed and weak, the wound is rapidly taking its toll.

Sylvain chants another healing spell, the sigil flaring from his palm. Felix hisses as the skin begins to knit together, but otherwise endures with his typical stoicism.

“You need to drink,” Sylvain says when it’s done. 

Felix yanks away, staggering until there’s a few feet of space between them. “No.”

Sylvain sighs and plants his hands on his hips. “ _Felix._ You can’t make it to Fraldarius like this. We both know it.” He shakes his head. “You’ve never wanted to take my vein, and I can’t understand why, but now is not the time to be particular. Stop being a stubborn ass, and drink.”

Felix stares at him. He’s swaying in place, amber eyes glassy from hunger and the loss of blood. Sylvain sees the conflict on his face, which is how he spots the exact moment Felix finally breaks.

It happens fast. Felix closes the distance between them in a surge, yanks Sylvain down to his level, and then his lips are icy cool against Sylvain’s throat, colder than the threat of frost in the air, but his breath when he opens his mouth is hot.

Pain flares, sharp and sweet, as the twin brands of Felix’s fangs pierce Sylvain’s flesh. Felix’s hands are curled into the front of his overcoat, an iron-clad grip, which might have been frightening if Sylvain had any wish whatsoever to escape.

He doesn’t. 

Sylvain sinks into the sensation, tilting his head to the side, offering himself. He’s wanted this for so long, and it’s both everything he expected and not. There’s a tingling warmth in his blood, right near where Felix’s teeth have breached him. He can track the progression as it heats him from the inside out, slowing his pulse to a hot, achy thud he feels with every heartbeat, flowing through him like the fiery lava at Ailell.

It _burns_ , a lustful wildfire scorching across a drought-stricken field, laying waste to everything in its path.

The moan that rips from Sylvain is obscene, a sound he’s never made, not even while in the throes of his most intense climax. Guttural, from deep within his gut, fueled by the sort of desire he’s never experienced, never known could _exist_.

But it’s the moan that makes Felix stop. He pauses, teeth still buried deep, and audibly swallows one last mouthful of Sylvain’s lifeblood before he withdraws his fangs. Sylvain gasps as Felix’s tongue soothes over the punctures in a slick, wet swipe. Felix pulls back, cautious, his movements now carefully contained. He doesn’t look at Sylvain, but fierce satisfaction roars through Sylvain nonetheless when he notices the color returned to Felix’s cheeks.

He did that. _Him_. Put the glow of health back on Felix’s face. Fed and provided Felix sustenance, vitality. And he already wants to do it again.

He pants, damp clouds of breath puffing into the air, and tries to reorient himself now that his world has been spun like a top and sent skittering over a ledge. He’s hot under the collar, sweat cooling on his skin in the deepening chill as he stares at Felix and Felix studiously avoids his gaze.

“Are you all right?” Felix asks, finally, gruff.

Sylvain nearly melts at the concern, so potent is his yearning to have Felix’s mouth back at his throat. He’s all right. More than all right. He’ll be even better when Felix takes from him again.

How, why, had Felix denied him this, denied _them_ , for all these years? Sylvain doesn’t understand.

Unless… He straightens from where he’d unconsciously leaned against the side of Felix’s horse. Unless, for Felix, it felt this way with everyone. Perhaps he doesn’t burn like Sylvain, doesn’t feel the hot throb of lust in his cock. Perhaps, for him, this feeding was as rote and mundane as any other, nothing more than numbly shoveling down a bland, boiled meal to take the edge off his hunger.

Sylvain clears his throat and looks away from him. It takes everything he has not to reach up and touch the place where Felix bit him. He’s seen Ashe after feeding Felix. Knows the puncture marks will already be healing from whatever supernatural properties linger in Felix’s saliva. Within hours, they’ll be gone. He’ll have only this, simply the memory of them. “Fine,” he rasps. “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t take much,” Felix says, “but you may be lightheaded. Be careful getting onto your horse.”

Sylvain nods and goes to his mare, who knickers a greeting. He makes it into the saddle without incident, and checks to see if Felix is ready before urging the horse into a trot.

The remainder of the trip passes in dull monotony. They stay at inns where they can, bed down on the hard ground with their gear when there are no beds available. It’s not comfortable or pleasant, but they’ve endured much worse.

Within a week, they’re in Fraldarius.

Sylvain hasn’t, not for a single, solitary second, stopped thinking about the sharp stab of Felix’s fangs in his throat. He obsesses over the idea that a part of Felix had been inside him, and Felix had taken a part of Sylvain into himself in turn.

They haven’t discussed the feeding. Sylvain knows Felix—knows if he tries, Felix will shut down any attempts at conversation. Instead, they discuss Dimitri’s plans to rebuild the continent, the first and foremost steps needed to begin a path of healing and rebirth.

Sylvain should care about this. He _does_ care about this. But it’s the very last thing he wishes to discuss right _now_. His head echoes with a chant of _more more more_.

When they reach Fraldarius Manor, Sylvain allows his mare to be taken to the stables and follows Felix into the house. His original intention was to stay the night before continuing on to Gautier in the morning, but now, well… he’s not going anywhere until he gets some answers to the questions burning most urgently in his mind. Felix owes him that much.

Sylvain enjoys a steaming hot bath for the first time in days, scrubs himself until his skin is sensitive and shiny pink. Eats dinner from a tray a servant provided, but barely tastes or remembers what he put in his mouth. And when night falls, he goes looking for Felix.

He traces the familiar route to Felix’s bedchamber, bare feet all but silent against the cold stone floors. It’s the same room Felix has used since childhood, and Sylvain doubts that will change anytime in the near future. It’ll be a long time before Felix moves into his parents’ old suite. Possibly, he never will. These halls feel haunted by unspoken words and might-have-beens. It’s not a place for Felix anymore—never truly was meant for him, as a second son—though now he’s duty-bound to either pass it into capable hands or take responsibility himself. Sylvain isn’t sure if even Felix has decided which course to take quite yet. Wounds still fester, both old and new, much the way they do for Sylvain in Gautier. But that’s a thought for later.

With a quick knock of warning, Sylvain slips into the room.

Felix looks up from where he sits by the fire. He’s also freshly bathed, dressed in a white tunic and dark blue breeches, his inky hair drying loose about his face. By now, it falls just past his shoulders. Sylvain wants to see it longer, to wrap the silky length of it around his fist as he pushes into Felix or feel it drape across his chest as Felix pushes into _him_.

Soon, he hopes. Maybe tonight.

“What is it?” Felix asks, straightening in his chair. “Did something happen?”

Sylvain hasn’t sought him out like this, in the dead of night, since they were children. Or rather, it was Felix who used to search for him, teary and sniffling, fearful of the shadows lurking in every corner. This was long before Sylvain learned Felix was descended from an ancestral line many people would consider monstrous themselves. To others, _they_ were the figures in the dark that inspired terror.

It was an open secret, known to those who needed to know, such as their house at Garreg Mach, the Blaiddyds, for whom the Fraldariuses acted as shields, the feeders who’d served and sustained the Fraldarius family for generations. 

Felix, Sylvain discovered, hadn’t wanted to tell him before it was absolutely essential. He hadn’t wanted Sylvain or their small group of friends to be afraid of him. He was still Felix, at heart, even after his powers manifested when his voice changed and his body matured, leaving boyhood behind.

Little did he know that Sylvain’s unspoken feelings for him would never change. Not then, not now, not ever.

Sylvain strides toward him, coming to a stop just in front of Felix’s chair. Felix tips his head back to look at him, but he’s alert now, suspicious, his shoulders stiff and his legs braced as if to stand.

“You didn’t drink enough that day you were injured,” Sylvain tells him. “I know you didn’t.”

Felix shrugs, though he’s too visibly tense for it to look as nonchalant as he probably intends. “So? What does it matter to you? I have feeders here. I’ll call for one in the morning.”

“No, you won’t.”

Felix’s eyes narrow to amber slits. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve fed from me once. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t do it again.”

“Those were extenuating circumstances,” Felix says flatly. “And a mistake I won’t be repeating if you think you can lord it over me now.”

Sylvain blinks down at him. “A mistake? I—I’m not trying to lord anything over you. You should know me better than that.” He steps even closer, fists clenched at his sides, too worked up to maintain his composure. “What is it you have against me, Felix? You’ve refused to drink from me for years. You let… You let Annette and Ingrid feed you. The professor, too. And Ashe, with him you—” Sylvain cuts himself off and shakes his head. No sense venturing there, and it’s not as if he has room to talk when he fucked his way through their time at the monastery. “But not me. What is that makes me unworthy, exactly? Is it because I’m _insatiable_? You worry my blood will be tainted somehow?”

Felix’s gaze slides away from his, toward the hearth. “I already apologized for calling you that. What else do you want me to say?”

“I want an answer. Why not my blood? Why not _me_?”

The last word cracks in the middle, and Sylvain forces himself to step back, his chest heaving. He’s tried, always tried, not to push Felix too hard. To give him his space, to let insults roll off his back, because he knows—or thought he knew—what motivates Felix. Why he does what he does and says what he says. They’re both plagued by memories of brothers dead and gone. But maybe Sylvain has only been deluding himself this whole time. Maybe he doesn’t understand Felix anywhere near the way he thought he did.

“Not me,” Sylvain repeats. If they’re going to have this conversation, may as well lay it all on the table now. Then it’ll be over, and they can hopefully move on from this. Perhaps he’ll understand Felix’s reasons, perhaps he won’t. But he needs to know what those reasons are. “Tell me why, and I’ll go. I won’t offer again. You can go on… doing what you do.”

Felix is silent for so long Sylvain takes that as his answer. He turns on his heel, ready to stride toward the door, but Felix’s voice stops him in place.

“You’re different,” Felix says, and his voice rasps like he dragged the words over crushed glass. “I don’t trust my control with you. I don’t know that I wouldn’t… lose myself. It might have happened, out there on the road. I stopped myself, but what if I can’t, the next time?”

“So don’t stop,” Sylvain says, turning to look at him.

Felix scoffs, his attention still fixed on the fire. “I won’t indulge your death wish, Sylvain.”

“I don’t want to die.”

Felix faces him, eyebrows raised and skepticism clear in the slant of his mouth. “Really? Sometimes I’m surprised you made it through the war.”

“Okay. I did want to, before,” Sylvain admits. Because if he _does_ know Felix, Felix knows him just as well. “I don’t anymore. That’s not what this is about.”

Felix crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair. “Then what is this about, exactly?”

“It’s about you and me. I want to be the one you come to. The one to feed you. It has to be someone, right?” He grins, aiming for rakish and charming, hoping he ends up somewhere close. “Let it be me. Let it… Let it _always_ be me.”

Felix’s flat stare is singularly unimpressed. “Why? If you’re looking for a thrill, I’m sure plenty of others would be more than willing to indulge you. Why _persist_ with someone who’s made it more than clear they don’t want you?” 

Sylvain’s jaw drops open.

Felix has given him blows during training, of course. Once, he accidentally called forth his Crest, landing a hit so brutal, Sylvain felt the _crack_ in his chest and a tearing in his lungs as several of his ribs fractured. 

That didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as this.

Sylvain turns away blindly, heading for the door.

_Not wanted._

Felix has made it clear. Time after time. He’s never been anything _but_ clear.

Sylvain, the fool, always glutton for punishment, simply chose to ignore those rejections.

But he never truly has been wanted, has he? Not for himself. Not for Sylvain, without the Gautier name and Crest attached. Not by his best friend, not by anyone.

He realizes his eyes are watering when Felix suddenly appears in front of him.

“Sylvain.”

“Let me pass,” Sylvain says, thick and clogged with emotion. He keeps his gaze focused on the door above Felix’s head. “You made your point, all right?”

“Look, I—” Felix sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I didn’t really mean that.”

Sylvain laughs bitterly. “It’s fine. No need to feign consideration for my feelings now.”

He shoves past Felix and reaches for the doorknob, but Felix catches his forearm in an unyielding grip.

“It’s not feigned. But you don’t know what you’re offering,” Felix says softly. “You’re always so fast to rush into things, bullheaded and without a thought to the consequences. You want to be mine, the only one to feed me? Do you know what it means to be a vampire’s consort?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sylvain says, rounding on him. “It means I’ll be marked by you for everyone to know. It means no one else can touch me, and do you know why I don’t mind? Because I don’t _want_ anyone else to touch me. It’s _you_ , and it always has been you, since the first time I wiped your tears away when we were kids, to now.”

Felix freezes, and the room goes so quiet the crackle of the fire sounds loud as thunder. There’s absolute stillness for just a moment, and then Sylvain’s back hits the door. He’s taller than Felix by at least a handspan, but right now, it’s Felix who looms large.

“You’d better mean it,” he says darkly, words slurring as his fangs lengthen.

Sylvain tips up his chin. “I mean it.”

Felix lunges forward, and Sylvain expects to feel the searing, pleasurable pain of those fangs sinking into his throat again, but instead Felix’s mouth crashes against his.

It’s bruising at first, too eager and lacking in finesse, yet still, Sylvain counts it as his best kiss, because it’s _Felix_. Then it softens, melts into something erotic, hot and slick, Felix’s tongue flicking seductively over his lower lip. The sharp sting of a fang pulls forth a gasp, and the taste of copper blooms. Felix moans, deepening the contact, and Sylvain echoes the sound.

He bends his knees a bit, putting them at the same level, and lets his hands come to rest at Felix’s waist.

The kiss stretches on and on, until his lungs strain for air, his mouth feels bee-stung and sore, and his cock is a stiff, achy brand behind his laces.

“Drink from me,” Sylvain pants when Felix draws back to stare at him. Felix’s lips shine with spit, red and swollen, and his eyes contain the predatory gleam Sylvain has come to recognize over the years. Hunger. “Take from me. I want you to.”

Felix practically hauls him to the bed in response, and Sylvain learns maybe he has a bit of a penchant for being manhandled when Felix lays him flat and wrenches off his shirt with one quick yank. Fabric rips at the seams when his breeches get torn from him, too. He wears nothing underneath. 

Sylvain spreads his thighs, unabashed in his nakedness. He’s well aware of what he looks like; he’s weaponized his appearance over the years. He can see Felix’s appreciation now, his dilated pupils, the quickening of his breath.

“Felix.” Sylvain lets one leg fall to the side, leaving himself open, vulnerable. “Come here.”

Felix joins him on the bed, still clothed, his damp hair like the caress of a feather on Sylvain’s inner thighs as he dips his head to press a kiss there. His eyes dart up to Sylvain’s, a quick flash of amber.

Sylvain nods, encouraging. “Do it.”

Felix doesn’t need any further encouragement. He strikes like a snake, sinking his fangs into the meat of Sylvain’s inner thigh.

Sylvain’s back arches, fingers tangling in the coverlet at the flash of pain. The burn builds once again. _Venom_ , Sylvain thinks, remembering now. From what he’d read, if the books he found in Abyss are to be believed, it’s meant to have a sedative effect, to make a vampire’s feeder docile. Yet, if this was the way it felt for others, he hadn’t seen it described as such.

Daze-like, the descriptions said. Numbing. Intended to soothe and calm, ease the process.

This is nothing like what he’d read. This is an inferno searing through his bloodstream, carrying the chemical to his heart, coursing through his limbs.

There’s a fire inside him, and it makes fluid seep from the tip of his cock onto the tautness of his belly, makes his empty hole clench around nothing. He longs to be filled, even while his skin grows so hot and sensitized, he’s not sure he can stand to be touched.

Felix pulls free and bites him again, on the opposite thigh.

“ _Ahhh_.” Sylvain thrashes his head, tracks the path of a bead of sweat as it slides down his temple. The pleasure is indescribable, fiery vermilion, crashing over him in waves that feel like coming, an endless orgasm, one pulsing spasm flowing right into the next.

He’s half out of his mind when Felix’s lips touch the base of his cock.

Sylvain peers down his body, sensing danger and only getting harder for the threat of it. This will hurt—oh, he knows it will—but he wants it still, wants to feel Felix’s teeth there, in that most sensitive place. Right now, he wants that more than anything. 

He wets his mouth and nods, eyes caught on Felix’s. “Yes, please. _Yes_.”

Fangs pierce his shaft, sharp as tiny twin knives, and the pain is keener, breathtaking in its intensity. Sylvain’s mouth falls open on a silent scream; his eyes roll toward the back of his skull. He kicks out reflexively, but settles in the next moment when Felix’s hands lock onto his thighs to hold him in place.

Then Felix starts to suck, and Sylvain starts coming for real, utterly helpless to fend off his body’s abrupt response. His spend feels almost cool in comparison to the heat built up under his skin as it spatters across his abdomen. There’s so much, it makes a complete mess of him. Sylvain can only gasp and shudder and endure the brutal waves of bliss as Felix moans and sucks even harder, drawing forth his blood in deep, greedy pulls.

Sylvain barely recognizes the noises coming from his own mouth. He must sound like he’s being slain, and maybe he is. It’s called the little death, after all, and Felix’s mouth is a wicked thing, cruel and kind in equal measure.

Felix tears himself away with a broken-off whine just as Sylvain’s vision starts to blur at the edges. He takes a few moments just to breathe, his gaze slanted toward the fire—fighting for the control, or so Sylvain assumes. He watches, fascinated, as the struggle plays out on what he can see of Felix’s face.

In short order, though, Felix collects himself. He turns back to Sylvain and makes quick work of licking over the punctures at the base of his shaft, then moves on to the marks on his thighs, dips his tongue into the puddle of release in Sylvain’s navel.

“Fuck me,” he slurs as Felix laps up his seed. “Inside me, now.”

Felix growls and leans back on his haunches, his lips blood-red, his eyes unnaturally bright.

Sylvain shivers as those inhuman eyes trace over his body. He should want to run from them. He should quiver in fear like a prey animal cornered by a greater beast. Instead, he hooks his arms under his knees and spreads himself wide open.

“Now, Felix. I know you want to.”

Felix doesn’t bother to deny it, or to undress. He fetches oil from a stand at the bedside, bares his cock, and slicks himself up until he’s shiny and dripping. He reaches between Sylvain’s legs with that same hand and pushes in a finger, spreading the slippery substance, loosening the muscle, but he doesn’t linger. It’s done with quick efficiency, not quite impatience but definitely without the intent to tease. 

“Ready?” Felix asks, setting the bottle aside. His voice is a desire-roughened rasp, and the tremor in his body reveals the true depth of his need, but he waits for Sylvain’s nod before moving again.

Sylvain watches, eager, enthralled, as Felix braces one palm on the bed and uses the other hand to guide himself inside.

Sylvain’s breath hisses through his teeth. The stretch is familiar but intense. It’s been a while since he’s done this, and the last time had been an unsatisfactory affair with a man he chose solely for his resemblance to Felix.

It can’t be compared to the real thing, to Felix sinking inside while the wounds on Sylvain’s thighs, his cock, still throb with faint pain, and the venom sings and boils in his blood. He’s still hard as steel and ready for more, despite his climax.

Sylvain assumes it’ll be fast, barely leashed strength, the hard slap of bodies. He never imagined Felix would lean down and kiss him so gently, so sweetly. That he’d move with long, plunging thrusts, deep every time, all the way to the hilt, but not rough. It’s slow as sticky honey, hotter than the sauna back at Garreg Mach. Sweat and lust and drenching ecstasy.

He buries his fists in Felix’s hair, holds him close, loses himself in the way Felix moves, the push and pull of it, the rhythm that glances over that sensitive spot inside him, curling his toes.

“Please,” Sylvain says, his voice ravaged from his desperate moans, his throat bared in supplication. “Only me. No one else. Tell… Tell me, Felix.” He gazes up at Felix, hazy-eyed, head spinning. “ _Please_.”

“Only you,” Felix murmurs, pushing in to the base, grinding fiercely. His hand wraps around Sylvain’s cock, fingers stroking over the slit. “Always you. It’s why I—” He breaks off, growling, thrusts growing short and jerky as he reaches his peak with a suddenness that seems to surprise him.

The expression on his face is all agonized pleasure, his lips parted, a hint of fang peeking through. Sylvain stares, enraptured. He’d done that. Him. He’d brought Felix to this height and sent him tumbling over.

The very idea drags Sylvain crashing, unraveling right behind him.

Afterward, Felix collapses on the bed, a line of wiry muscle along Sylvain’s side.

Sylvain swallows. The dryness in his mouth screams for water. He’s overheated, feverish almost, from the sex and the aftereffects of the venom. Quite possibly, he needs another bath—or at minimum, a wet cloth to wash away the sweat and other fluids. But for now, he has more pressing concerns.

“Felix,” he says, turning his head. “It’s why you what?”

Felix doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “It’s why I never fed from you. I wanted to. I always wanted to. But I wasn’t only concerned about keeping control. I worried maybe you only craved the thrill of it, not me.”

Sylvain can’t fault him for the assumption, not with the way he behaved during their academy days. He’d torn through his relationships, breaking hearts without compunction, in some twisted attempt to fuck away those feelings of self-hatred, to prove to himself that sex, his seed, was all anyone ever wanted from him, all he was ever good for. He’d never thought he’d have a chance with Felix, didn’t feel deserving of it before.

Things changed. _He’s_ changed.

“I love you, Felix,” he says simply. Beneath the many facades he’s worn over the years, that’s always been the only irrevocable truth. “That’s why I want to be the one. Me for you, and you for me.”

Felix nods, and his hand comes up to cup Sylvain’s cheek. “I believe you.”

Sylvain waits for more. “And?” he finally prompts. “You feel it, too. Say you do.”

Felix’s breath puffs across his chin as he laughs quietly. “Yes. I love you, Sylvain. Of course I do. I would’ve taken you up on one of your offers ages ago if I’d felt anything less.” He leans in, resting their foreheads together. “Only you, from now on.”

“Only me, forever.” Sylvain closes his eyes. “We promised to die together, remember?”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He hears Felix’s sigh, feels his hand slide from his cheek to the back of his neck. A firm squeeze. “Only you, forever.”

They have many other things to discuss, not the least of which is where they’ll live, what Felix will do with Fraldarius and the dukedom he never wanted, when Felix will mark him permanently, give Sylvain the sign of ownership he covets. Their relationship won’t be simple or easy; it never has been. They’ll stumble along the way, maybe fall. They’ll get back up again. 

But those are worries for later. For now, this moment, Felix’s breath on his mouth and a new promise made… it’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always very much appreciated! <3
> 
> Find me [on Twitter](https://twitter.com/MxTicketyBoo). :D


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